forced laughter and fake smiles
by thebestwaytoeatpeanutbutter
Summary: CS AU-heavily inspired by Something Borrowed. Emma and Killian meet in law school.
1. forced laughter and fake smiles

Inspired by Something Borrowed, Enchanted by Taylor Swift, and my friends Jack and Mellie.

* * *

Emma watches him leave, her bid for self-preservation the only thing keeping her from running out of the bar after him, from yelling that she _loves_ him, that she's _always_ loved him. Her fake smile only wanes once he's gone, and there it is, that _pain_, that pain she wishes she was impervious to.

Her heart follows him out the door.

Killian.

The guy who, when they first met, no sooner teased her about her Girl Scout preparedness on their first day of Basic Constitutional Law before he divested her of one of her carefully arranged pencils, winking conciliatorily before she could protest.

The guy who, after class that first day, asked her to lunch at the coffeehouse around the corner—_you're cute when you sputter indignantly, love—_shared his proclivity for hot chocolate with cinnamon, ordered her a cup despite her opposition—_try something new, darling, it's called trust_—and ruined her for all other beverages.

The guy who, when she let her schoolwork stress consume her, would forcibly remove her from her dorm room, and take her to a movie—he'd buy the tickets and in repayment she wouldn't _hog the bloody popcorn, Swan_.

The guy who cried at the ending of Anna Karenina, who had been the first to volunteer to help her navigate the nightstand she'd bought from IKEA, who lip-synched to old music while he drove, who could wheedle his way past any deadline, and who she'd give an emergency call to when she needed to be talked through the rudiments of making an Indian curry, _again_, because she was an adult and still could not manage her way past the microwave.

She thinks of early spring of sophomore year, on the last day of finals, how they'd meandered to the Irish pub on the corner that he liked so much—_no finer ale around, sweetheart, and I'd wager we earned a few after this week, bloody hell_. She remembers how they'd whined about their professors, laughed until their stomachs hurt, she'd been so _happy_—her smile bright, her insides warm and fuzzy—and how somewhere around her third Guinness her hand had begun inching towards his across the table, and then—

She'd innocuously told Milah, her longest friend, during a phone conversation a few hours prior—in which Milah had given her the unsolicited advice _to stop studying so much and come party with me—_that she'd been cajoled into getting completely shitfaced the night finals ended. She hadn't realized how erroneous that had proved to be until Milah had arrived at the pub that night, turning heads, her mincing steps hampered only by the tight material of her dress and her voluminous breasts, her smile wide and deadly when her eyes fell on Killian.

She recalls when Killian had gone up to the bar to replenish their drinks, and she'd sworn to Milah that _they were just friends_ and_ yeah, maybe some girls are into his swagger and blue eyes and accent, but he's like my brother, gross. _And how when Milah had dared him to ask her out—_that is, as long as Emma's okay with it_—he'd acquiesced only after Emma's scoff— _of course, you two would be great together._

She'd excused herself that night on a claim of exhaustion, but her heart had been heavy in her chest as she'd left, and she told herself she wasn't upset Killian hadn't caught the lie.

Milah was gorgeous. And she was just Emma.

She'd been halfway down the block before he'd caught up to her, and her heart had swelled at the concern in his eyes and the that he reminded her she was _an open book, darling, _and that_ I can tell something's the matter_. She'd only smiled as convincingly as she could manage, afraid to look into his eyes lest her expression give her away. _You caught me_, she'd said, trying to squash down any and all feelings of despair, _I just wanted to give you two some alone time. I think Milah's really into you_. His eyes had lit up and it was then she knew her appeal to the side of him that was pure, red-blooded male had worked. _You think so, do you, lass_, he'd teased with a cocky grin and a waggle of his eyebrows.

She remembers wrapping her arms around herself as she watched him walk away.

Milah and Killian had been inseparable after their first date, when he'd taken her dancing, and they'd ended the night at his dorm, ripping each other clothes off, and learning every contour of the other's bodies.

In true best friend form, Emma had giggled and nodded at all the right places when she was regaled with stories of their wild sexcapades—the pair were unequivocally insatiable for the other—a fact she could attest to after the harrowing experience of walking into Killian's dorm room with intent to study with him and had been greeted with the breathy moans and soft mewls that could be heard in most pornos.

She remembers how her smiles had dimmed behind the rim of her coffee mug after a while, and that she'd watch Killian bring Milah's hand up to his lips to kiss with no small amount of pulling at her heart, but that over time it got less painful to see them together. When she was throwing herself into her studies or serial-dating the tennis team, she wouldn't even think of how much she missed her best friend.

She wouldn't even think of how she missed his tickle attacks, his chocolate chip pancakes on lazy Sunday mornings, and the look he'd get in his eyes when he realized she watched Game of Thrones without him.

She wouldn't think of how empty the days were without him.

* * *

Her eyes are still on the door he'd just walked out of minutes ago.

She knocks back her drink with purpose, wiping a hand across her lips. She relishes in burn of the alcohol. _Get a grip, Swan_, she berates herself, fingers digging into the lip of the bar, _he's in love with Milah, he has been for two years_.

She's tired of forcing laughter and faking smiles.

Emma slams her glass on the bar with renewed vigor. She has to tell him.

She stands and slips on her woolen blazer, golden hair cascading down her back, yells to the bartender to put the charge on her tab and escapes out the door. She earns a few admiring glances from male passerby—old drunks leering at the expanse of leg her skirt provides— as she hastens down the blocks to where he lives, her heart in her throat. With each step, she expects to find the level-headed lawyer side of her at odds with her heart, but there is no contention within her.

The blocks are short and she covers them nimbly—she does trip once or twice, but she's had a bit to drink, so that is neither here nor there—and then she's outside his building. Her feet carry her down hallways to his door, and she knocks before she can talk herself out of it.

Emma waits for what feels like an hour but was probably only a minute, shifting her weight from foot to foot, before she raises her hand to knock again, only to have her progress halted by his door opening. And there stands Killian, his hair messy, eyes blue, in nothing but a pair of jeans slung low on his hips and an unbuttoned shirt.

"Emma," he says, the simple lilting of his voice enough to impair whatever resolve she'd found within her, and while she knows she can turn and run, something she's overly familiar with, all along she's known Killian has always been that one person worth jumping into the void with.

"It wasn't okay," she says.

His eyes are soft when he looks at her. "Emma, darling, it's late and as I suspect you had a bit to drink once I left—"

"It wasn't okay," she says again, "I didn't want you to go out with her."

His jaw drops a little, and she can see the conflict behind his eyes. Sidling up to him, her eyes are open and honest and she's _pleading_ for him with everything she has to see that's she always been _right here_.

"_I love you_, Killian," Emma says, and her bottom lip _trembles_ from the effort it took to finally admit to him the depth of her feeling for him. "Choose _me_."


	2. flashback

If you've seen the movie, you know the scene.

* * *

_Two years ago_

She clutches her sides for support, gasping for breath, only to burst out laughing again as Killian continues to regale her about the bar mitzvah he'd attended as a child and how he'd managed to trip over his own feet during the Hora and landed butt-first into the punchbowl. She knows she shouldn't be so loud, and she can feel the belligerent glares of the other students in the library, but she can't bring herself to care. When she was with Killian, he made her the person she wanted to be, instead of the person she is.

It was moments like these that reminded her why she was nursing such a big crush on him.

She pushes her ubiquitous glasses up the bridge of her nose and sighs, trying to recall her former equilibrium. They're supposed to be studying for their Torts, but for some reason between quizzing each other about various comparative fault schemes and stuffing their faces with cafeteria lasagna, she'd brought up her first game of seven minutes in heaven, and from there they'd neglected their studies in favor of telling stories and trading quips. She's being so _irresponsible_ and she can only _imagine_ the coronary her stepfather would have if he knew he was paying her tuition so she could tuck herself into some corner with a gorgeous guy and giggle.

"Stop getting us off topic, Killian," she admonishes, but there is no reproach in her voice, and her smile has yet to wane. Her stomach aches, but it was the best kind of ache, and she never wants to stop laughing.

"If the lady insists," he lilts, waggling his eyebrows exaggeratingly as he reaches for their study guide. "Negligence can be conceived as having which four elements?"

Emma surveys him as he reads off the question, swooning a bit as he runs his tongue along his lips in a habit that's equal parts provocative and detrimental to her judgment. His eyes flicker up to hers and—_oh, right, the question_—but her brain refuses to provide any of the material she's been studying all semester. All she can focus on his the iridescent blue of his eyes, and how they compliment the collared shirt he's wearing and—

"Have I stumped you, darling?" he teases, dimpling his cheek, head titled, and she flushes at her reveries, tucking a loose strand of hair behind her ear.

"I'm thinking," she explains, then tilts her head back and laughs, full and deep, because she's _not_ thinking. It's nearly midnight, Torts are a week away, and all she can concentrate on is how he smells like hearty soap and that essence of boy.

"Bloody hell, Swan, you know this," he laughs, leaning his elbows on the table. And she _does_ know this. She knows everything about the subject backwards and forwards, because she's a _nerd_ who spends her afternoons sipping hot chocolate, singing along to her Les Miserables soundtrack, and studying every single negligible detail in her notes.

"Duty, breach, causation, and…" Her mind goes blank and she snorts at her incompetence, laughing when he crumples up his notebook paper and throws it at her. "What am I missing?" she balks, scrunching her nose at her own failings.

"Damages," Killian declares, and Emma's eyes widen in recognition.

"Oh, _shit_," she all but yells, eliciting an acrimonious shushing from the librarian. Their eyes meet across the table and they collapse into a fit of giggles, casting each other goofy grins.

"Try using a mnemonic, it'll help you remember," he volunteers, reaching for a pen. Their fingers brush as he does so, causing her heart to skid and thump in her chest, and it's completely _unfair _that he can reduce her into giggly twelve-year-old with a mere touch.

"DBCD," he says, tapping his pen against his teeth. _God, he's hot._

Emma leans back into her chair, playing with a button on her cardigan. "Ah, deliver by – Christmas Day."

"Don't blame Cameron Diaz," he quips with a grin, and it's not even funny, but it's _late_ and she's tired and warm and fuzzy so she laughs again, practically cackling. He joins in, shoulders shaking, and she just _knows_ they're going to be banned from this library with the scene they're making, but she could just stay there forever. It's weird how only _Killian_ can make her facilities feel impaired to the point where she's convinced that she's drunk and hasn't even had a sip of alcohol.

"You're not even that funny," she giggles, adjusting her glasses. A tear slides down her cheek—she's seriously hasn't laughed that hard in years—and before she understands what's happening, he reaches across the table and tenderly brushes the tear away, blue eyes staring intently into hers. Her breath catches in her throat, eyes wide and heart racing. He's looking at her like he's about to kiss her—but that's ridiculous because he's _Killian Jones_ and he could have any girl on this campus. And besides, hot people are supposed to be with hot people. Emma Swan is definitely not hot. At the very best she's _okay-looking_, with green eyes and blonde hair and a collection of collegiate blazers that constitute half of her wardrobe.

"How about when this is all over," Killian intones, eyes twinkling—_is this even happening_—and thumb tracing her cheekbone before his hand slips away, "I buy celebratory drinks."

"That doesn't fit, you moron," she mocks, her fluttering pulse completely belying her nonchalant words, "but – uhm, sure."

She's so extremely obtuse that she doesn't notice how he's looking at her like he thinks she'd hung the moon.

Someone like him would never be interested in someone like her.


	3. the party

Writer's block sucks. Again, much of the dialogue is from the movie. Read and review!

* * *

_One year ago_

Emma debates the merits of being single as she walks—no pledged fidelity, the toilet seat is always down, she never has to remember anniversaries—and most days she tells herself that it's better this way, knowing that it's her independent nature and decided lack of coercive lingerie that prevents guys from asking her on a second date. There's also the fact that she's a self-proclaimed _nerd_ who prefers movies with subtitles—a predilection that not many are willing to indulge. And _maybe_ she's not particularly magnanimous and refuses to share dessert—but hey, it's not _her_ fault that _one_ guy put his extremities in peril of being impaled by her fork that _one_ time he tried to help himself to a generous portion of her cheesecake.

The days that she _does_ allow herself to acknowledge the real reason no guy actively pursues her—the way she always finds an excuse to escape into her apartment before a goodnight kiss can be proposed—normally end with a marathon event of _Friends_ and a gallon of ice cream.

Emma chastises herself for agreeing to meet Milah tonight, because she _hates_ her birthday. She's never been big on celebrating it. This year it only serves as a reminder that a year has gone by and she's _old _and all of her friends are getting _married_, while she's irrevocably in love with someone who will _never_ be hers, single, and has no prospects.

She just _knows_ Milah has conspired against her and planned a surprise party despite her specific instructions not to. She knows her friend has good intentions, and that Milah had probably surmised that a party on Emma's birthday would be the perfect way to commemorate the event, but she's _tired_ after a long day of school and wants to go home and change into her sweatpants.

_Ah, hell_. At least she might be able to relieve her misery in a few drinks. Maybe the party will serve as a suitable distraction for her bruised ego and empty social calendar.

"Surprise," she mumbles to herself, practicing her surprised face as she meanders the blocks. She earns a few reproving looks but ignores them and tries to decide whether she should widen or eyes or drop her jaw. _God, she sucks_. Her entire life pretty much sucks. She thinks of the bar where she's supposed to meet Milah and how it's sure to be filled with people she hardly knows and groans, now viewing the party as not only an inconvenience but an affront.

She crosses the street, the wind buffeting her coat and hair, and she lets out a string of expletives as she nears the bar. Confined by her own self-doubt, she doesn't notice the silent, pervading perusal of the club bouncer as she approaches, nor does she see his appreciative grin—she's wearing a dress she's fairly certain was a hand-me-down from her _grandmother_.

Emma castigates herself for the conservative dress, knowing she definitely isn't dressed for the occasion. She figures she should've called Milah for her insight, but she didn't think she could take Milah's smug satisfaction that she would defer to her on any matter as consequential as fashion advice.

"Private party," the bouncer intones.

"They're expecting me," she says with a self-deprecating smile.

All too soon she's entering, finished prolonging the inevitable. The room is dark and that's just _great_ because the last thing she needs on her birthday is to trip over the ridiculously high shoes she bought purely from Milah's influence—

"_**HAPPY BIRTHDAY, EMMA**_!"

She feigns surprise as she's faced with a crowd of partygoers, their drinks raised to her in salute. A smile splits her face at the sight. She can't deny the rise of emotion in her throat and behind her eyes because it's _so nice_ to feel important. Despite her recriminations, and the fact that this is the day that marks her induction into official spinsterhood, she feels somewhat gratified as she surveys the room.

Milah's squealing as she races to Emma, her smile wide and arms outstretched. The white of her slinky cocktail dress is nearly see-through, but Emma refrains from comment as she smiles and finds herself wrapped in Milah's embrace.

"I know you told me not to, but I just _had_ to, Em. Oh my God, were you surprised?" asks Milah, her voice so full of glee and expectation that Emma hasn't the heart to tell her that she wasn't. Instead she nods and laughs and allows herself to be hugged her friend again.

"I am_ literally _the best friend ever," Milah grins, and with a wink she descends back into the crowd, where the party is now in full swing. The club is loud but there's a fully-stocked bar and so with that incentive she begins down the steps.

Then she trips.

"_Shit_," she grumbles, somehow managing to retain her upright position without spraining an ankle. _That _wasn't majorly embarrassing. She curses at the absurdity of wearing shoes with heels so precariously high.

She hears a low laugh from behind her—_she knows that laugh_—and then there's hot breath in her ear. "Always like to make an impression, don't you, Swan?"

She starts at the sound of _his_ voice, her pulse fluttering. He smells absolutely _lascivious_ and she fights to regulate her breathing. _Get it together, Swan. _Emma turns to face him, beginning to deliver a reply when she finds her tongue wedged in her throat.

Killian looks completely devastating in a leather jacket and jeans, his old familiar smirk lifting half of his mouth. _Fuck_. His hair is a thick mess on top of his head and she just wants to reach out and run her hands through it and—

Every single girl in this bar is staring at him.

"Happy birthday, darling," he says, and extends a tumbler of what smells like good, strong rum in her direction. She takes the proffered glass with a smile, feeling a spark shoot up her arm as their fingers brush.

"Thanks for showing up, Jones," she grins. _I've missed you_.

"I wouldn't miss your birthday for the world," he grins back. There's a faint glimmer in his eye that conveys his understanding and recognition of how much she dislikes her birthday. The bit of familiarity warms her insides. Suddenly, the stabbing pain in the vicinity of her heart every time she looks at him begins to deplete.

"I feel it's my duty to support you as you attempt to reconcile yourself with the fact that you're now _incredibly_ old," he prattles on, head tilted. The way his blue eyes crinkle at the corners as he smiles at her reminds her of simpler times.

"Ha," she deadpans, taking a sip of her drink. The alcohol issues a welcoming warmth as it slides down her throat. Spiced rum— the kind they'd decided long ago that was the best remedy for a particularly long week.

"You _do_ look rather beautiful for a woman of your years, though, love. You must be doing something right." Killian winks, raising his glass to clink with hers, and she snorts at his compliment. Failing to the way his eyes soften as he stares at her, she scoffs into the rim of her glass.

She's about to ask him how he's been—_if he notices how empty the days are when they're not together_—but an exuberant grin appears on his lips and his attention is redirected to somewhere over her shoulder. Emma whirls to see Milah, who climbs onto the makeshift stage at the far end of the room, somehow managing to dedicate enough sobriety to the task so that her glass of wine never spills in the process.

With a departing wink, Killian saunters off to get a better view of his girlfriend, and Emma watches him go, a weary sense of resignation settling over her. She brings her glass to her lips and downs the alcohol as Milah commands the room.

"_Yoooo hoooooo._ I'm gonna say something, and I know everyone wants to hear it," Milah slurs, but even in her inebriated state she seems fully in control.

"Oh, the center of attention, that's weird," says a voice from behind her, and Emma turns to head to see David, one of her oldest and closest friends, and she momentarily forgets her despair as her eyes fill with some of their old light. She smiles brightly at her friend, appreciating his presence at the party, and he returns the smile in kind.

"As most of you know, I'm _madly_ in love with the absolutely _sinful _Killian Jones," Milah forges on, and the crowd whoops and hollers and Killian gives his the-devil-may-care smile. Emma's pretty sure a whole _swath_ of women nearly fainted. "But Killian, honey, I have a confession to make. This won't be my first serious relationship."

Everyone turns to look at Emma, and her cheeks feel hot at the attention.

"Yep, Emma and I have been soul mates since the beginning," Milah laughs, teetering slightly in her shoes, steadying herself on the wall. Her intemperance does nothing to lessen her appeal. All boobs and bouncy dark hair, she has every male at the party completely riveted to her.

"Like two peas in a pod, we did everything together – like reenacting Dirty Dancing and our _infamous_ dance routine to Salt and Pepa's _Push It,_" she pauses, and Emma finds herself remembering their sixth grade talent show entry and their matching Spandex costumes, giggling at the memory and the complete _injustice_ it was that they'd lost to a girl playing Bohemian Rhapsody on her saxophone.

"We basically shared _everything_. Including David, our date to the sixth grade dance," the brunette sends a flirtatious wink at David, whose discomfort at being mentioned is practically palpable as he stiffens and mutters profanity, to which Emma chuckles, "Through all the years Emma and I were inseparable. It was us against the world. And after we graduated from high school _she_ ditched my ass. _Stupid law school_."

The crowd roars with laughter. Emma shrugs, grinning.

"Despite the fact that I _selflessly_ rejected my acceptance to Notre Dame because _she_ wasn't let in," Milah says, pointing at Emma, who ducks her head at the reminder of her rejection letter from the college.

"But whatever. It all worked out in the end because she went to NYU Law and met my future boyfriend and introduced us."

Killian shoots Emma his killer grin, raising his glass to her. She pretends her heart doesn't constrict painfully in her chest and returns the gesture.

"I'll never forget when Killian asked me to be his girlfriend, like the _sap_ he is," Milah makes eyes at Killian, fluttering her lashes, "And all I could think about when he was talking about how much I meant to him was that I wish _Emma_ was here, _watching_ me in this moment."

Emma's smile dims and she accepts the drink David hands her without a thought.

"To say you are my best friend is the understatement of the century, Em. You're the sister I never had. And you're sometimes the mother I often need," she pauses, takes a sip of her wine, and smiles at Emma. "The reason I can stumble so _fearlessly_ into adventure is because she is always there. She is _always, always _there. I love you, Emma."

Emma feels her eyes brimming from emotion, and as much as she resents Milah for being everything she isn't, she loves her, too. The solid presence of Milah in Emma's life has become one of her biggest comforts.

"Happy twenty-fifth, Em! _SO_ happy it isn't me yet. Let's get this party started, bitches," Milah concludes, swaying her hips as she saunters off the stage, straight into the arms of Killian. Emma watches as they kiss, their public intimacy making her eyes brim with another emotion she was all too familiar with.

She can feel the solid weight of David's hand on the small of her back as he guides her to the bar. He's teasing her, saying something about her dress closely resembling something his grandmother would wear, and she offers a smile, but it doesn't reach her eyes.

She catches her reflection in the window—ubiquitous glasses, long blonde hair in a ponytail, forced smile—and sees nothing but an old maid.


	4. the girlfriend

**A/N:** Finals are the reason for the delay. Also, I get crippling writer's block. But I'm back! I sincerely hope maybe I can have one person review this chapter? Last chapter's results where a bit disappointing. Thanks, my fellow CSers!

* * *

Emma struggles to remember to breathe—copious levels of anxiety are exemplified in her wide eyes—and _why isn't he saying anything_. This was a bad idea. This was a _very_, _very_ bad idea. She's drowning in emotional quicksand. Death appears imminent. Killian Jones would never be interested in _her_. Emma Swan isn't interesting or sexy or the kind of girl who wears expensive lingerie underneath her clothing. She wears glasses. She keeps stacks of playbills from musicals underneath her bed like _porn_. She's a _geek_.

Besides, she's read _Star Signs_ in the hidden confines of the astronomy section. Killian is a Scorpio, she's a Capricorn. They're astronomically incompatible. It figures that Milah is a Leo. According to planetary interplay, that means she and Killian have _explosive_ sex. No wonder the vagaries of fate led them to each other.

She wants not to want him. She wants to salvage whatever is left of her dignity and walk away from _him_, from their relationship, from her feelings—but she _can't_. Ever since that first day of class—that afternoon when they'd eaten lunch together at the corner bakery, he'd walked her back to her dorm humming _American Pie, _and she'd gotten the distinct impression that he seemed intent on becoming a permanent fixture in her life—she's wanted him. At first, their foray into friendship seemed like a bad eighties movie—the nerdy girl and the big man on campus and the _will-they-or-won't-they_ whispers—and she'd spent the first semester assuming that all he was largely exploiting her for test answers. She'd only fully accepted he wasn't going anywhere—that he wasn't spending all this time with her for less than altruistic reasons—when finals had ended and instead of joining the masses in bar-crawling, he'd come to her dorm room armed with a six-pack of pudding—tapioca, of course, because they both liked the little lumps—and they'd fallen asleep that night on the couch watching old cartoons.

Despite his irreverent quips and brash exterior, she _knows _he loves deeply, and finds herself wondering what it would be like to be loved so deeply more than she'd ever admit. His flirtatious behavior—the kind that enjoyed all the benefits and none of the consequences—made it easy to forget that he had any depth of feeling. But it was there in the late nights when he would confide in her about his brother and his death in the navy, stories shared in a deferential tone that made her heart ache. It was there in the way he looked at Milah when she complained about being fat—which was funny, considering she ate like a linebacker and still managed to fit into size-two dresses—like she was the most beautiful woman in the world and that nothing could ever change that.

His continued silence deprives her of whatever courage has brought her to his door in the middle of the night, and she begins to castigate herself for _ever_ allowing Killian to have enough of her heart to break her. She feels herself shrink back—she wasn't _enough_, she was _never_ enough, he's _Killian Jones_—but she doesn't turn and leave. Instead, she levels him with her stare, eyes wide and imploring and hopefully not smudged with the little makeup she'd applied—Milah had introduced her to the finer points of eyeliner a few weeks ago, saying that Emma's failed attempts at being a girl were the reason no guy had slept with her in months.

"You know I'm not good at this," she begins and her voice _shakes_ because she just _knows_ that whatever happens next, she _will not_ let him see her hurt. "I-I'm terrible at admitting what I really want, but Killian—" She manages a small smile, and he's just _standing_ there, pale and unkempt in a rumpled oxford cloth shirt and jeans that look as though he's slept in them. "Two years ago, that _night_, I shouldn't have left. You came after me –and, I-I didn't want to. It wasn't _okay_, _none_ of it was okay—"

"_Emma_," he says. She stops her incoherent rambling, knowing she's likely making an ass of herself, that he's probably holding back a laugh at her vulnerability. The vague premonition that Milah could be inside, in his bed, wearing nothing but one of his shirts—maybe even one _she'd _bought him for his birthday, simply because it complimented his eyes—feeling sated and perfectly used by Killian makes her heart constrict in her chest. The rise of emotion in her throat threatens to explode into a torrent of tears and self-pity.

Killian regards her silently, eyes so dark they preclude her from speaking another word. She's never known Killian Jones not to be ready with a quip or winning smile, and his silence only serves in making her hands sweat and heart race. She's afraid of him not being in her life anymore. She's become dependent on him, so much so that she's fairly certain that if she lost him that she would lose a part of herself. She hasn't been living her life, but she wants to now. And she wants to live her life with him.

Finally, he gives a slight smile that barely resembles the ones she had seen over the years—the grin he'd give his professors to wheedle them into giving him an extension on his paper or the smirk he'd use to his own prerogative. She's trembling as he steps toward her, an odd light in his eyes, perilously close to turning around and making a hasty escape—even if her choice of shoes didn't really account for it—as all of her insecurities whisper at her that she's making a fool of herself and that he couldn't possibly requite even a modicum of what she feels for him. When he speaks, his voice is so soft she can't help but wonder if she's imagined it.

"Emma, Emma, darling _Emma_," he whispers, accent thick, and he's so _close_ that heat begins to resonate through every limb. "You are the only bloody thing I've thought about for the past two years. Every _sodding_ night I spend thinking of you before sleep claims me. How could you _possibly_ _not_ know that?"

Before she can even wonder if she's dreaming—because if she is, _best dream ever_—when he takes her face in his hands and slants his lips over hers. She can feel his hands in her hair, the stubble of his chin. His lips are hard and insistent and she's wanted this for so long, _this_ and everything it entails. She can't remember a time when she didn't imagine this—being with him, in his arms, as he professed his undying love (or something of the sort).

Emma wants to cry, almost convinced that when she opens her eyes she'll be faced with some leering drunk she'd went home with from the bar in an attempt at forgetting those blue, blue eyes that made her heart constrict in her chest. But she feels his solid presence in front of her, his arms wrapped around her. Every inch of her skin is on fire.

She can't even remember how he manages to lead her into his apartment. All she can focus on is how he presses her up against the door so that she can feel the entire hard length of his body against hers. His lips descend to the gentle curve of her neck, leaving hot, open-mouthed kisses against the expanse of skin.

"I've thought about you in my bed since the moment I saw you in those _ridiculous_ glasses," he murmurs against her, and she would laugh or even protest if she wasn't so lost in his strength and warmth. She didn't consider herself an expert in intimacy by any means, completely used to casual sex with whatever guy was willing to offer her his full attention for the night, but she'd figured out that effort percentages in a relationship fluctuated depending on need, and right now she _needed_ Killian.

His hands made short work of divesting her of her woolen blazer, and somehow she found she preferred the heavy garment on the floor, along with her collared shirt. In fact, maybe she should never wear clothes again.

"'One fairer than my love? The all-seeing sun ne'er saw her match since first the world began,'" Killian murmurs. It took her a length of time to realize he was quoting Shakespeare to her as he pressed himself against her with just the thin silk of her lingerie separating them, that she _liked_ Shakespeare, and that he was likely whispering the words for her benefit. Somewhere in the back of her mind, she recalled he'd bought her tickets to see Romeo and Juliet with him at the community theater for her birthday, and that he'd cried even harder than she had before it ended.

He reaches behind her and hoists her up, leaving her no choice but to wrap her legs around his narrow hips. Somehow she registered he was carrying her a short distance, and only opened her eyes once she felt the press of the couch cushions against her back. _God_. She remembers being on this couch—watching loud action movies she secretly hated but knew he loved, playing video games until the early hours of the morning, stealing his food from his plate.

"The couch?" she asks.

"For starters," he mumbles, kissing at the soft skin between her breasts. "But make no mistake, Swan. I'll be having you on every surface in this damned apartment."

She'd be lying if she said her entire body didn't shudder at the promise.

They're truly a sight to be seen—his shirt thrown somewhere across her room, pants hanging low on his hips, her hair messy and bra the only thing preserving her modesty. It's all so perfect and right and she's practically _aching_ with need but she wants this to be slow and savoring. It's nothing like the thousands of scenarios she's conjured in her head over the course of knowing him. It's better.

"Killian," she cries, fisting her hands in his hair as his lips descend the length of her stomach, exploring every inch of exposed skin. He groans as he presses his face into her skirt, breathing her in.

"Oh, Emma," he rasps, nosing underneath her skirt. "You're wearing those ginormous panties again, aren't you?" At the affirmance of this, he lets out a laugh that does dangerous things to her sense of reality. "Ohhhhhhhhh, yes," he grins. "Hello, my large friends."

She wants to laugh with him, because it's so perfectly Killian, and because she hasn't forgotten that harrowing incident in the showers years ago when he'd seen her wearing what he'd teased her as being the largest pair of panties he'd ever seen a woman. And that was saying something.

Before she has the chance, the phone rings.

Killian lets it ring, continuing his ministrations, but then the voicemail picks up. The voice on the other end of the line sends Emma's heart to her throat. Killian pulls his head out from under her skirt. They both refuse to look at the other.

"Killian, my love, it's Milah. I thought about you all day today and I just wanted to let you know, I miss you and I can't wait to be in your arms. Ha, that sounds like something in one of those trashy romance novels Emma spends all her time reading. Anyway, love you. Call me back."


End file.
